Partout
by opheliacs
Summary: AU Modern university drabbles featuring Les Amis. Eponine centric. E/R, J/M/B, eventual Courfeyrac/Eponine. Enjolras struggles with Grantaire's drinking, Eponine deals with abusive relationships, and Musichetta plays matchmaker, among other adventures.
1. Raspberry Tea

There was a knock on the door just as Éponine fluffed the towel over her shower-fresh hair. "Hang on," she yelled, doing up the buttons on her shirt. She jumped over a misplaced stack of books and the sleeping cat in the hallway and wrenched the sticky door open with a grunt. Enjolras stepped in, dripping rain and looking exhausted. "Can I come in?"

She smirked. "You did, didn't you? Try not to drip on my paper; it's on the table. Can you look over it for me? I'll make tea and toast." It was a seamless and well-practiced arrangement, like a broken-in pair of favorite shoes. Every time Enjolras came over, there was tea and toast with jam. While Éponine frustratedly punched the starter on the gas range and pulled mugs from art museums and NPR stations off the hooks by the sink, Enjolras scooted the stack of books off the couch. Kerouac and Ginsberg clattered to the threadbare rug.

"It's cold in here," he said, pulling a blanket off the back of the couch.

"Mmm," she answered, yanking the kettle off the burner, "there's something wrong with the heat."

"It's January!"

She laughed. "At least it's not the power," she waved to the Christmas lights tacked along the walls. "Otherwise I'd be in real trouble." She set the tea down in front of him and he drank gratefully, syrupy raspberry warming his insides. "So to what do I owe this pleasure? I mean, unless you came down here just to read about the Romantic influences in van Gogh's watercolors." She gracefully draped her long, legging-clad legs over his lap.

He smiled tiredly, rubbing his nose. "I just needed a place that's quiet."

She frowned, dipping her finger into the jam on her toast. "Grantaire's drinking again." It wasn't a question, and Enjolras' exhausted sigh was all the answer she needed.

"It's not—" he began.

"How bad?"

He groaned, pulling at his damp curls. "Not bad, at least not yet. His brother just got some award for that paper he published, and Old Père Grantaire called to remind Max of his general uselessness. And that gallery declined his submission." Éponine winced, knowing how hard he'd wanted that place in the art show. "It's not his fault," Enjolras continued, "they just ran out of room, and some donor was pulling some strings about a personal favor, you know how it is."

She snorted. She was just an art history graduate student who dabbled in art as a hobby, but she knew that, like everything else, it was all politics. The cat wandered over and butted the hand hanging off the couch, and she scratched his head. "What will you do if Taire doesn't get his shit together?"

Enjolras didn't answer right away. He looked over at her and smiled sadly. "How am I supposed to leave him? Maybe it would be easier if he drank constantly. But he always gets better, eventually."

She nudged his leg with her foot. "Does that mean that if he, you know, ever _did _go on a constant bender, you'd leave?"

"He knows my feelings. As soon as alcohol becomes more important than his health or our relationship, I'll leave, because that might be the only thing that sobers him up." He took another long drag from the tea while Éponine licked jam off her fingers, whose nails were painted sparkly mint green today, he noticed. He shook his head fondly. "Ép, has anyone ever told you that you're a bit weird?" he asked, pointing to her fingernails.

She grinned broadly. "Every damn day, babe, and I know our friends secretly find me refreshing."

He raised his eyebrows accusingly. "Maybe not so secretly; isn't that Courfeyrac's shirt?"

She winked, smoothing the green stripes down with her hand.

The rain poured over the Village so hard that the apartments across the alley were fuzzy. They spent the evening working on their respective papers, his on French peasant revolts of the 1800s and hers on van Gogh. She made two kettles of raspberry tea and he put Gershwin on the stereo. He braved the rain to get Greek takeout, insisting that he hadn't really dried out from the first time. It also gave him an opportunity to call Grantaire.

Éponine and Enjolras abandoned their papers and flipped on a movie. She watched as his eyes dropped and head dropped against the back of the couch. "Did you call Taire?"

He nodded. "Told him I was staying at the library," he mumbled sleepily.

"Which really means you're asking if you can stay on my couch," she laughed.

One eye opened sleepily. "Please? Just for tonight?" But there had been more than a few 'just for tonights,' and she kept a nest of blankets and squishy pillows behind the couch just for that purpose. Since she was the only one of their group without a roommate, she jokingly called her couch the Transient Couch of Sorrows, given how much use it got after one friend or the other had a fight, got drunk, or just wanted some company. Enjolras always gave it a lot of use when Grantaire was drinking, because at least so far, it worked without fail that Grantaire would sober up if he thought Enjolras might actually leave.

Éponine pulled a few blankets over him as she eased him down. Clicking off the television and unplugging the lights, she waved to him. "Night, Enj."

He yawned hugely. "Thanks, Ép, you're the best."

She smirked in the dark. "Aren't I just. Don't mention it, honey." In her tiny bedroom, she set her alarm for two hours earlier than planned, rolled over, and hoped she could talk some sense into Grantaire in the morning.


	2. Bittersweet

She brings you vanilla chai tea when you're in the library too late. It's actually how you met. You had a horrible cold with a rattling cough, and she brought you tea. You looked at her strangely—people in New York City do not help other people, and nobody accepts drinks from strangers, she must be new. But sheepishly you felt guilty because you knew your cough had probably bothered her. She held it out with a smile and introduced herself, a vocal performance and music theory student from Virginia. Somehow, miraculously, you do not snort when she says her name is Euphrasie Fauchelevant, called Cosette.

Everything she owns seems to be either pastel, lacy, polka-dotted, or, horrifyingly, all of the above. She somehow squeezes her feet into heels and toe-pinching flats and never seems fazed by all the walking in less than ideal footwear. Her entire apartment is covered in Impressionist artwork and bright colors and soft edges. She favors romantic literature and vintage movies. You absolutely want to hate her, but she is so different from the other people you know, so devastatingly lovely and wholeheartedly kind that you like her, despite yourself.

You feel drawn to protect her. She is bright-eyed and innocent; people could easily take advantage of her sweetness and you don't want her to get jaded. Under your tutelage, she toughens and learns street smarts. She is much smarter than you had assumed; she's well-versed in the news, and despite coming from a poky little town where nobody locks their doors, she's equally well-versed in Cold Case and Law & Order. So you don't worry. Much, anyway. After all, you've made your name on being tough as nails.

You complement each other well; you are snarky and prone to long and inexplicable periods of melancholy and drinking too much wine, and she is doe-eyed and friendly and never seems to run out of energy. You hesitate at introducing her to your other friends. You're not stupid, you know how it looks that your friend group is almost exclusively male, even if half of them are gay. You worry about the possibilities. Enjolras could be mean, setting his jaw in that way he has and flaring into an argument that comes out of nowhere. Grantaire would undoubtedly drink too much and tread the line between intellectual and insulting. Courfeyrac could make too many crude jokes. She might be conservative, and Joly's, Bossuet's, and Musichetta's ménage-à-trois is hard to adjust to even for the liberal-minded. Bahorel is straight-up terrifying given his size and perpetual surly expression, even though he's golden-hearted. Combeferre and Feuilly are fine, no worries, but while she and her friends found Jehan's exuberance and flamboyance endearing, Cosette might find them offputting. Then there's Marius. You're not about to share Marius.

Mostly, though, you fell into this group of friends almost by chance and don't make friends well by nature, so you don't want anything to jeopardize the fact that you managed to make and keep a friend independently of Les Amis, as they call themselves.

She has a recital in the winter, and it's an unspoken given that you'll be there. She mentions in passing that she hopes your other friends will come, too. The concert is free, she says, it'll provide a nice relief from studying for exams, and she wants to meet these clever boys you talk about so often. You've just about decided that your fears are ridiculous and that provided you don't acquaint the group at a bar, they'd behave. Since this is during finals, they probably won't all come.

You stand in the foyer of the concert hall, and _every person you know _parades in. Mercifully, Grantaire is sober, and though Jehan's lavender suit jacket practically glows, this is New York, after all. Combeferre teases you about how he'd thought you'd invented an urban legend, that Cosette didn't actually exist. Musichetta plays with your hair and pouts, wishing you'd let her 'go to work' on it and bring out the honey undertones that you're pretty sure don't exist, but you still remember that one time she accidentally dyed her own hair pink, so chances are good you're never letting her near your head with chemicals. Courfeyrac buys you wine and follows you with wistful eyes, but you don't notice. You're on the lookout for Marius, who's running late, as always. Just as the concert is about to start, he peels in and plops next to you with a grin, and your heart turns over in your chest.

The concert is absolutely beautiful, and the rowdier members of your entourage explode into a cacophony of whistles and cheers. Cosette flushes with pride. You make the introductions, and Marius and Cosette are so awestruck by the other that they fumble the handshake. You all go out afterwards for dinner and the two of them might as well be by themselves. They talk to and look at no one else the entire night, and when you all part ways, Cosette teasingly shames you for not introducing her to Marius sooner. Not the rest of the boys. Marius.

You go home and finish the half-bottle of wine, quieting Enjolras' voice in your conscience that says drinking your feelings away is the kind of thing Grantaire would do. And you lay awake. And you want to hate her for doing so instantly and completely what you never could, for making Marius fall hopelessly in love—or at least the beginnings of it. But you are a softy underneath your city-girl exterior. You want both of them to be happy and love them both too much to be angry, only sad.

Sad enough, in fact, that despite the fact that you swore you were done, you call Montparnasse.


	3. Whiskey and Cinnamon

I was just looking for a place to eat my sandwich.

Okay, and I wanted it to be kind of quiet, too. It was only noon and this day was already way too damn long.

I found the perfect bench—nice breeze, decent sunlight, view of the pond—and sank down. I was just about to take a bite when this girl cleared her throat at me. She was wearing this flimsy purple dress and Jesus Christ she had the longest legs, curly black hair down to _there _and she was glaring at me over her reading glasses, book in hand. Sexy librarian? Hell, yes.

"Can I help you?" I asked, grinning.

"Yes, by going away. You're blocking my sun."

I rolled my eyes. "Public park, isn't it?"

She did _not _look pleased, but she sighed a little. "You're not from here, are you?"

"What tipped you off? The raging Irish accent?" I laughed and leaned in closer. Holy fuck, this girl's eyes. I'd thought they were brown, but they had little bits of gold in them. "My name's Jamie Courfeyrac, but I usually just go by my last name." I stuck out a hand to this girl, hoping I'd get a smile, her name, and a phone number. I know how to play this game.

She looked at my hand, considering, then finally took it. She had the tiniest hands, and her nails were dark purple, like her dress. "Mine's Éponine. Éponine Thénardier. Sometimes my friends call me Ép, or Ponine."

I grinned again. "Does that mean I can call you Ponine? That's cute."

She smirked. Not a smile, but at least she'd stopped glaring. "Who said you're my friend?"

Take it easy, Courfeyrac. Don't want to scare her. "I _can _be, if you'll let me."

She smiled, slowly, barely, but it was there. "What do you do, Jamie-called-Courfeyrac?"

"Pre-law. History and political science at NYU. What do you do, Éponine-not-yet-Ponine?"

"Art history, Columbia."

I whistled, impressed. I'd had trouble scrounging up the money for NYU; I couldn't imagine how much Columbia would cost. She didn't look or act like much of a rich girl, though. "What year?"

"First; you?" She set aside her book. Good, this meant she didn't intend to shoo me away any time soon.

"Second," I answered. "And may I inquire as to the young lady's age?" Not that it mattered, per se, because she's fucking gorgeous, but I'd like to make sure she's not one of those child prodigies who entered university at fifteen. I breathed a sigh of relief when she answered that as of one hour ago, she was nineteen. "You should come out tonight, then, with me and the lads." Oh, shit, she's laughing at me. "No, no, it's not like that. We go to a bar every couple of days and talk and eat and hang out. You'd like them, I'd bet. And they'd like you. But don't worry about them picking you up, half of them are gay." She raised one eyebrow at me, and I winked at her. Christ, I was winking now? That was new, even for me, the resident flirt. But how else was I supposed to say that I was _definitely _available without just stating the obvious?

It took two hours of gentle convincing. I started off by asking her what she liked to study best, what she did in her spare time, what she was reading. I wasn't just being courteous. I really wanted to know. She surprised me by asking just as much about me as I had about her. She liked raspberry tea. She had insomnia. She liked impressionism and modern architecture. She changed the subject so fast my head hurt when I asked her about her family. I told her what there was to tell—I didn't fit into Catholic Ireland, law seemed interesting, I liked 80s rock music and jam bands.

I told her about my friends, how Enjolras was way too serious and convinced he'd change the entire world. How Grantaire was a brilliant artist but drank when life got too hard. How Joly was so germophobic he nearly stroked out taking the subway, but wanted to be a doctor. How Musichetta was a baker who took her chemistry to her hair, with sometimes horrible results. How Bossuet was singlehandedly the most unlucky person on the planet, but a gifted physics student. How the three of them were in a three-way relationship that made sense only to them. How Feuilly buried himself in constellations and had a surprising knack for turning paper into artwork. How Jehan was an absolute nutter with more love for life than anyone I knew. How Combeferre struggled through pre-med classes with more determination than anyone I knew. How Bahorel was on _every _sports team and, surprisingly, wanted to be a psychologist.

I was shocked that I didn't have to tell her about Marius. "I know all about Marius," she said, biting her lip. "We've known each other since we were kids." Was that a blush I saw? Well, we're going to have to change that.

By some miracle, I got her to go out with me, plying her with the promise of more birthday drinks than she could handle. She laughed at that, promising me with a grin that she could drink anyone under the table. Grantaire took to her immediately, but then again, Grantaire seemed to take to most women. Enjolras was nice enough, or as nice as he ever is, but he turned back to his book with a sigh pointed at Grantaire. Everyone in the whole world knew they were mad for each other—except them, of course. Jehan, as only he could, kissed her cheeks and spewed poetry about the beauty of her eyes. She toasted his wit. And just like that, she was one of us.

I bought her a water and whiskey. She took it like a champ. I wasn't sure whether I was impressed or frightened, but Grantaire howled and called for more. I wanted to warn him somehow that this wasn't going to end well for him, that Enjolras would get pissed and leave, but that would be pointing out That Thing We Don't Talk About. I got her out on the dance floor a few drinks later, and I'll be goddamned if she wasn't the best dancer I'd ever seen. No trace of the alcohol in her, no 'white-girl-wasted' syndrome. "What is it you do again, Miss ÉponineThénardier?" I asked as she whirled away from me.

She came back toward me and grinded up on me so hard that I had to bite down on the inside of my cheek _hard. _Jesus fuck. "Burlesque," she whispered in my ear. "I do burlesque."

I spun her around and kissed her, gripping her hips. She tasted like whiskey and cinnamon, and I groaned.

Neither of us could remember how we got back to my apartment. Maybe it was alcohol, or loneliness, or literal fate, which I'd never believed in before, but might have to start now. But one way or the other, she fell into my bed that night, and that pretty much sealed my fate.

I was in love with Éponine Thénardier.


	4. Ecstasy

Someone has been banging on Éponine's door for ten minutes, but it's four in the morning and her radiator had finally concluded its slow and noisy death, it's February and snowing, and she's not for any reason getting out of bed. She rolls over, punching the duvet in frustration. _If it's someone important they better bloody call._ More than likely, it's some drunk soul who's confused. Her eyes snap open. If it's a drunk soul, it's one who knows her name. She groans and fumbles for her glasses on the bedside table, hissing when her feet hit the cold wood floor. Pulling on odd bits of clothing as she walks to the door, she grapples with the triple lock and wrenches open the door, which sticks badly. A scantily clad carbon copy of Éponine falls into her startled arms, giggling wildly. "Hello, dearest!"

The desire to shove the girl into the hallway, shut the door, and go back to bed is astounding.

"Azelma," she sighs, holding her twin at arms' length, "what the fuck are you doing here?" _No sense in asking her if she knows what time it is._

Azelma grins and twirls a pirouette on the rug, her torn red skirt flaring around her. Her foot comes down, treading on the cat's tail. The cat yowls and scampers down the hallway. "Ooh, bad pussy," Azelma murmurs, then bursts into fresh giggles at her own terrible joke.

Éponine groans, taking Azelma by the shoulders. "Azelma! What. Do. You. Want." She asks through clenched teeth, thinking she's being rather calm, considering.

Azelma cocks her head from side to side, thinking. Her lips sink into a pout. "I need a place to sleep, and I've lost my key."

Éponine scrutinizes Azelma, looking deep into her eyes. Something about them seems…weird. She sniffs, but can't find any booze. She frowns. "What did you take, Zel?"

Azelma's infuriating grin creeps back in place. _God, I hope I don't look as annoying, _Éponine silently prays. "I have no goddamn idea," Azelma confesses, "but it's fucking wonderful!"

Éponine grits her teeth. "Azelma, if you puke on my furniture, so help me…" Now that she thinks about it, she's pretty sure Azelma had taken ecstasy. It's the only thing she can think of that would make her twin so maniacally happy while maintaining at least some grip on reality.

Azelma just laughs, twirling down the hallway and coming back a few minutes later in some of Éponine's pajamas. "Can you make me scrambled eggs and tea?" she pouts again, wrapping her arms around Éponine's waist, "and do you have any booze?" she cuddles against her twin's chest.

Éponine absentmindedly rubs her sister's back. "Yes, I can make eggs and tea," she sighs, resigned. "No, I don't have any booze, but I wouldn't give it to you if I did." She ignores Azelma's whines and traipses back to her bedroom, going through Azelma's discarded clothes with familiar precision. Her fingers slip against the tiny bag of white powder—she doesn't know what drug it contains, and frankly, she doesn't care. She pretends to use the bathroom, flushing the bag of powder and deciding to let Azelma think it had gone the way of the lost key.

She's relieved from egg-scrambling duty because Azelma's high has worn off and she's collapsed on the couch asleep. But now she herself needs some tea, and she wishes she hadn't let Courfeyrac drink the rest of her absinthe, because as always with Azelma, she needs something a little stronger than tea. But tea will have to do. She whips the kettle off the burner as soon as it starts whistling, not wanting to disturb her sister. She squeezes herself on the remaining space of the couch and pulls an afghan over herself and Azelma, who stirs in her drug-induced sleep and rolls her head into Éponine's lap with a smile.

She holds her tea in one hand and strokes her twin's hair with the other, pensive. Perfectly identical outwardly, only their mother and brother could tell them apart when they were younger. Inwardly, they'd always been different. While Éponine had been fierce and sarcastic, Azelma had been reserved and almost delicate, prone to fits of crying and nightmares. When they got older, as they started to distinguish themselves outwardly, Éponine found an outlet in art and learning while Azelma retreated into herself, never showing any emotion, yet lashing out in the form of sneaking out, getting busted more times than she could count for fake IDs, popping pills and probably much worse. Éponine stayed awake most nights, and Azelma stayed out. It was luck, a faintly recognizable spark of ambition (in Éponine's case), and a desire never to see her darken the doors (in Azelma's case) that allowed both girls to graduate high school. Both girls moved out immediately. It was only a dizzying and terrifying year of dancing, studying, scrimping, and proving herself that got Éponine to get the admissions board of Columbia to see her. She had come back to her apartment and cried when she'd found out about the scholarship.

Azelma whimpers in her sleep, shaking Éponine back to the present. _Are you happy, Zel? _She wonders, drinking her tea. _Do you like what you do, or do you just not know any better? _

But, then again, what right does Éponine have to question Azelma's happiness? She herself certainly isn't happy, even if she's good at hiding it.

When Azelma finally wakes up, Éponine's still sitting there with her fingers in her sister's tangled hair. She doesn't judge or accuse. She sighs with reluctant fondness, smoothing Azelma's hair out of her eyes. "Mind telling me what last night was all about?"

Sobered up, Azelma looks more like Éponine. Deep down, they have the same soul, though it comes out in different ways. Azelma bites her lip and looks away. "Dad's dead."

"Oh," Éponine says.

And really, what else can she say?

In lieu of saying anything, she makes scrambled eggs and tea and lets Azelma cry.


	5. Fast and Loose

She only dates people who encourage the worst and unhealthiest aspects of her personality, those that exploit the darkest parts of her. She plays fast and loose and it's rare that Les Amis see her bring the same guy around twice. They unanimously agree they like her better when she's single. When taken, she drinks too much and is prone to disappearing for a few days at a time—including now.

"She's a grown woman," Enjolras insists, "she's allowed to do what she wants, and if getting space from all of us for a few days is what she wants, who are we to tell her differently?"

Marius rolls his eyes. "For Christ's sake, Enjolras. Not that you're wrong, but I've known her since we were kids—she doesn't exactly come from the best family. Am I the only one who thinks that when she disappears for a few days, someone from her family has found her and is hurting her, or that there's some kind of trouble?"

"You're not the only one who cares about Éponine," Bahorel says quietly, and Combeferre shoots him a pointed look with an arched eyebrow.

[Cosette]: Are your ears burning?  
[Éponine]: What do you mean?  
[Cosette]: The boys are gossiping about you. Have you been taken by wolves?  
[Éponine]: Just one. ;)  
[Cosette]: When do we get to meet him?!  
[Éponine]: Tonight. He's really great, I promise. Are you at the Corinth or the Musain?  
[Cosette]: Corinth! It's half-off wing night, duh. :)

Cosette sets down her phone with a grin. "Ponine's coming in tonight. She's met someone, and she says he's really great!"

The men trade a grim look about Éponine's frequently misapplied usage of the word 'great.'

More than a few drinks later, she comes in with the gentleman in tow. The boy is absolutely, undeniably good-looking and has the self-possession that indicates he knows it. He's dressed more like he's going to a yacht club in Connecticut than to a somewhat questionable college bar. His black hair is brushed back but falls attractively across his face, teasing his gray eyes. He fills out his blue checkered button-down and tailored khakis perfectly, and Bossuet has half a mind to tell him not to wear such nice shoes in here next time unless he's dying to get them filled with beer. He knows from experience.

"I don't like him," Courfeyrac says decisively.

"Jealous," Feuilly shoots back.

"No, I just don't like the look of him."

"He seems alright to me," Joly adds.

"Courf has a point," Grantaire studies the gentleman over the rim of his glass, "there's something about him I don't like, but I'm not sure what it is. What about you, Enj?" He elbows Enjolras in the side.

Enjolras shakes himself from the furious scribbling in his notebook and looks up, scanning the crowd for Éponine and her new boyfriend. Of course, by what he heard of the conversation, his friends were judging the guy on appearance alone, and Enjolras would need to engage him in conversation to make an honest opinion, but he shrugs in response and takes a swig of his Jack and ginger. "I don't see anything _wrong _with him, if that's what you're asking," he says, knowing that it's not _really _what they're asking.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Obtuse. But seriously, God knows what she sees in him."

Bahorel rolls his eyes in return, chucking a bit of breadstick at Courfeyrac. "Look, Casa-never, just because she said no to _you _doesn't mean that she has to be alone for the rest of her life."

Ignoring his friends' banter, Grantaire notices something with a practiced eye that perhaps someone else might have overlooked, but to him, this accessory stands out easily. Despite the tight twists and turns she'd been making on the dance floor all night, she has never been without a drink. More specifically, she has gone through _many _drinks, and she isn't exactly a lightweight. Grantaire prefers to think of himself as an alcohol connoisseur if anything, and he can tell that Éponine has been exceptionally varied in her cocktail consumption. He frowns at the peeling veneer on the table.

Jehan, usually the first to offer an opinion on anything, is the last to speak. He, too, has been watching closely. With his chin in one hand and Combeferre's in the other, he purses his lips in concentration. "Dorian Gray."

Combeferre raises an eyebrow at his boyfriend. "…is a work of classic Gothic literature about a hedonistic dandy…?"

"Yes, yes, and Éponine's new boyfriend reminds me of him. The clothes, for one thing. But—Courfeyrac's jealousy notwithstanding—isn't there something about him that kind of bothers you? Something sort of shady, I don't know. Like he might do something illegal on the side, or something."

Joly frays the edge of his napkin fretfully. "If he's Dorian Gray, I hope Éponine's not that girl who killed herself over him."

"Ponine's been drinking a lot," Grantaire pitches in. "Even for her. Like, rivaling old-me proportions." He smiles when Enjolras unexpectedly presses a lingering kiss to his temple.

Courfeyrac winces for a number of reasons. Firstly, he's just noticed that indeed, Éponine is teetering a little in her heels, and her dress has slid up to just this side of indecent. He likes a casual drink as much as any of them, but her tendencies toward Grantaire-ism—Les Amis' secret name for emotion-induced self-destruction—has always bothered him. And, of course, this entire night is a horrible reminder of how she turned him down.

The two of them had been reluctant to really address the way they'd met, or at least how the night had ended. Courfeyrac was embarrassed, because although his behavior wasn't really out of his usual habits, he genuinely liked Éponine and wanted to get to know her in a context that didn't involve gratuitous (though mindblowingly good) sex. Éponine was content to let the past rest, if Courfeyrac wasn't going to bring it up. She had known that he wasn't going to be like a regular one-night stand because she liked him and his friends, and she wondered if discussing what had happened would put an awkward strain on their friendship.

All joking about her body, dancing ability, and job aside, Courfeyrac thinks he might legitimately be in love with her. Sometimes.

So he told her.

It was really the worst thing she could have done, and she knew it a split second before it happened, but she laughed. While other girls may have said But What About Our Friendship, she knows they're always going to be friends. What she does say is that she's not sure if she feels the same way, doesn't want to entangle anyone in her messy life, and is by nature afraid of monogamy.

So it only makes sense that she shows up with Dorian Gray.

Bossuet notices Courfeyrac's stormy expression and pours a measure of whiskey into Courfeyrac's glass.

Éponine, sweaty and sore-footed, pulls her boyfriend over to the group, though she leans against him once they stand still. She's grinning a little too widely, and she hopes it doesn't show, but if she weren't leaning against Montparnasse, she'd be liable to topple over. "Friends, New Yorkers, countrymen, this is Montparnasse," she says just a touch too loudly, showing him off like a game show host.

He smiles a bit tightly. "A pleasure, I'm sure." He shifts his weight like he'd rather be somewhere else, but Éponine has one hand firmly latched to his arm and the other on the tabletop, so for the moment, he has no choice.

Enjolras, the most civil of all of them, is the first to speak. "What do you do, Montparnasse?"

"I study accounting and management at Fordham," he replies. He has a lovely voice, sort of silky.

"Where did you meet our Éponine?" Combeferre asks, staring hard at Montparnasse over his glasses and hoping he'd catch the emphasis on 'our_._'

He smirked. "At work, of course," he says coolly. "Have you seen her? I assure you that she's quite…_talented."_

Courfeyrac looks in serious danger of punching Montparnasse, and Bahorel is pushing him down into his seat. To her credit, despite her somewhat intoxicated state and the fact that she normally treats her job matter-of-factly—it pays the bills, after all, if she remembers to pay them—Éponine looks positively mortified. "Was that necessary?" she laughs nervously.

He turns his cool gaze to her. "I don't know," he shrugs, "you're the stripper, so you tell me."

Éponine grits her teeth in anger. She dances and sings in risqué clothing and plays the piano. She doesn't strip, and she makes sure of that. Not wanting to start an argument in front of her friends, most of whom were openly glaring at Montparnasse, she pulls at his arm. "Why don't we get some more drinks? Or perhaps a walk, as I think you've probably had one too many tonight." Negating her point at which of them needs sobering, she stumbles a little. He trails after her, his expression somewhere between amused and indifferent.

"He's definitely Dorian Gray," Combeferre says once the door has shut on the pair.

"Does that mean Éponine is Sybil Vane?" Jehan asks, but he's got a teasing smile.

Grantaire snorts so loudly even Enjolras looks up. "Are you kidding? She'd be the damn knife that ruined the painting. It might take her a while, but she'll see him for the bastard he is." For they all agree that the boy is an insufferable bastard.

"I don't understand," Marius says, fretting and angry, "she knew this was so important to Cosette! How could she just miss it?"

Cosette smiles sadly, trying to excuse her friend. "It's okay, Marius; there will always be another concert. I'll bet she fell asleep or lost track of time at the museum."

Enjolras snorts. "She's not _that _scatterbrained."

Courfeyrac frowns deeply and downs the rest of his whiskey and water. Grantaire leans over to him. "Something's wrong," he whispers, tickling Courfeyrac's ear.

Courfeyrac shakes off a shiver; he's never had a high tolerance for whispers. "I know," he replies, "she'd been excited about Cosette's solo for weeks, and she would never miss it unless there was an emergency."

Almost as if he'd read their minds, Combeferre adds, "Maybe something came up with her sister or brother?"

Musichetta shakes her head. "Gavroche is covering the café for me. I think Ponine said Azelma is in a shelter to get help for her addiction."

Grantaire gives Courfeyrac a pointed—and wholly unnecessary—look. "Guys, something is wrong," Courfeyrac says, picking at the edge of his cup. "You know she wouldn't miss this concert unless something happened to _her." _He swallows painfully. They all meet each other's' eyes. Marius deflates, the anger sucked out of him, and Cosette's eyes go wide as saucers.

"You don't think"—Joly squeaks at the same time Feuilly says, "Surely not…"

Bossuet and Musichetta place soothing hands on Joly's arms, and Bahorel cracks his knuckles with a grim smile. "I'll kill him."

Enjolras holds up his hands, ever the diplomat. "Guys, we don't even know what happened, if anything. Why don't _some _of us try calling or texting her, and we'll see if she feels like answering. People that know her well and know how to calm her in a crisis." Predictably, the entire lot pull out their phones to fire off texts and calls. Cosette has a spare key and rushes over with Marius to see if she's home. Joly remembers the GPS-locating app he made all of them install, but either Éponine's phone is off, or she's disabled the app, because she makes no pings on the radar. They split up to look for her in places she usually haunts, though most are closed for the night.

Eleven missed calls and twenty text messages later, with numb fingers, Éponine picks up her phone.

[Éponine]: Please.  
[Courfeyrac]: Where are you?  
[Éponine]: Balto.

Her hands are shaking too badly for her to do any better. She slumps against the statue of the sled dog and holds her knees, crumpling in on herself. She's torn between the desire to bury her head in her knees and constantly look around just in case.

After some trial and error, Courfeyrac remembers the one time Éponine confessed her favorite movie growing up was about a sled dog, and that she liked to sit by his statue in Central Park to think. He finds her there, hunched so small she blends in. He approaches her from the front, hands held out in front of him, silently asking permission to touch her. She's like a feral animal, hair wild and standing on end, shaking violently, and he can see a nasty cut across her cheekbone and is sure there are plenty more. It's all he can do to keep from scooping her up, but he knows she needs reassurance. They watch each other in the darkness, and she nods.

She stands on her own jerkily. Her skirt is torn, and her blouse is missing several buttons. It's unevenly matched with what few buttons are left. Bruises the shape of fingertips dot her neck and arms. She bites her lip and tries to smile. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

Somehow it's right that Courfeyrac is the one who finds her. He doesn't threaten to break Montparnasse's nose, like Feuilly or Bahorel. He doesn't insist on taking her to the hospital, like Joly. He doesn't scold her, like Enjolras or Grantaire. He doesn't try to psychoanalyze her decisions, like Combeferre, or placate her with pretty words, like Jehan. He just sits. She talks when she wants to. He holds her when she needs it. He does take her chin in his hand and tell her enough is enough. After a small amount of stubborn crying and a lot of "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorrysorrysorry," she agrees.

[Enjolras]: She's not in her apartment, but someone has been here recently.  
[Grantaire]: Her sister hasn't seen her.  
[Musichetta]: She hasn't been to the café.  
[Combeferre]: Or the Corinth.  
[Courfeyrac]: Sorry. Everyone calm down and go home. I found her. She's safe.  
[Cosette]: OMG! Is she okay?  
[Courfeyrac]: Ask in the morning.

Éponine stands barefooted and swallowed up in one of Courfeyrac's flannel shirts, perusing his massive collection of CDs. Somehow he manages to have at least one CD by every one of their favorite bands or singers, which is no small feat, since none of them have similar tastes. He steps blinking into the sunlight just as she slips the CD into the stereo. The Decemberists trickle through the speakers and he rubs his curly hair sleepily. "Good morning," he yawns.

She smiles with a twinge of sadness. "Hi." She shuffles her feet and looks down, feeling uncharacteristically awkward. She hums along to California One, cracking the window a little and smelling the spring air. Gnawing her lip, desperate to talk about anything other than what was pushing the air around them like a weight, she looks over her shoulder. "I'll bet California is lovely this time of year."

He snaps awake then, arms crossed over his bare chest. "Can we talk?" Her face falls for a split second, then grows hard, defensive, angry. He mentally imagines her as a cat with claws unsheathed. They're going to talk whether she really wants to or not, but he gestures to the couch and seats himself on one end. She twists her lips in irritation and sinks down on the other end, eyebrow raised.

"Why do you do shit like this, Éponine?" Her eyes grow wide, but he misjudges the reason. "And do not insult _anyone _and pretend you don't know what I'm talking about."

"Who gave _you_ permission to judge me? You're not my dad!"

"Shit, don't you think I know that? But clearly someone needs to parent you, because sometimes you don't seem to do a good job of it." He sets his jaw angrily for what he thinks will probably be a fight to the death.

He's not prepared for the slap.

She leans forward on her arms, eyes glittering with rage. "Do you know something, Courfeyrac? I've been on my own my _entire life. _So I dance half-naked in a club and I drink too much and I date people that are bad for me; can you really fucking blame me? Who in their right mind would want to be with me? I'm _lucky, _okay? I'm _lucky _that anyone wants to be with me." Her chest heaves and she bites down hard on her bottom lip, staining it red.

He stares in surprise. He knows her family life is horrible and that she basically raised herself and her brother—Azelma was a bit of a lost cause. "That's what this is about?" he asks quietly. "You think nobody wants you, so you just go with people who do?"

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, sinking back into the cushions. "Of course not. I have standards."

"Yes, some standards you have…"

"Shut up."

"But that's what it is, isn't it? You're scared, Éponine." She glares at him. "You are! But are you scared of being alone…or are you scared of someone loving you?"

"Neither, obviously, since I've been on my own since I was seventeen." His face is stony. "What the fuck do you want me to say, Courf? That I need to be with a boy at all times? That I systematically reject other people who could love me?"

"You don't have to say either. Your actions tell me all I need to know."

She shakes her head angrily, determined not to cry. She does _not _cry, ever. "What would you have me do, if you were in my place?"

He doesn't answer. Slowly, so slowly the motion is almost unnoticeable, he reaches out his hand until their fingertips brush together. Their fingers lace together, and she looks first at their intertwined hands and then at him, his eyes, pleading and hopeful. "Accept that you are loved…by so many people, Ép. And we won't stop, even if you hate us, even if you do stupid shit, even if you—Christ—date people who…do _that—_but don't you dare." He smiles wryly. "Get used to it. And stand up." He hauls her to her feet, drags her to the stereo, and punches a few buttons.

She looks confused, but a subtle blush settles over her cheeks. He takes her by the waist and hand, waltzing her around to California One. "You're probably right," he says, "I'm sure California is beautiful this time of year and every other time."

She bites her lip again, smiling slightly. "We'll go sometime."

"Definitely."

"We'll make breakfast first."

"Of course. Strawberry waffles?"

"If you insist. Coffee with cream?"

"If you're nice. Call everyone you know and tell them you're right as rain?"

"If I must."

He meets her gold-flecked eyes and subconsciously pulls her a little closer. The weight is crushing him. _I love you I love you I love you I love you. _But he can't. Not yet. Not today, at least. Maybe not ever, but he'd rather not think about that. He kisses the tip of her nose instead. "Make the coffee, you wench, or I'll withhold the waffles."

"I'll tell everyone what a tyrant you are!" she laughs and dances her way into the kitchen, starting the coffee grinder.

He rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He thinks about Jehan's Dorian Gray metaphor again. _Never liked that damn book._

Maybe they were more like Harry and Sally.


	6. Matchmaker

Jehan rested his chin on top of his book, staring at his tea intently. And he sighed…and sighed…and sighed. Eventually even Musichetta, who had been singing while she washed dishes, noticed.

She pulled a cookie out of the case and slid it to him with a smile. "What's wrong, dearest? You're brooding."

He looked up at her miserably. "It's terrible, Chetta."

"I can see that," she deadpanned.

"But it's wonderful…I'm in love," he blushed.

"Again?" She stifled a giggle as he glared. "Okay, okay. Tell me all about him. Or her. Or whichever."

At that, Jehan flushed a color of red that Musichetta thought was only reserved for nail polish and traffic lights. "Erm…well...I mean…"

"Twenty questions it is, then. Male or female?"

"Male…" Jehan sank a little deeper in his seat.

"Do I know him?"

"Yes…" If he sank any lower, he'd soon be under the counter.

Musichetta slapped the counter triumphantly. "Then it's Combeferre."

Jehan shot back up in his seat. "But how did you…?"

She ticked off the names on her fingers. "It's not Joly or Bossuet, because they're all mine and that's too tragic-love-affair even for you. It's not Enjolras because he's too serious and single-minded. And taken. It's not Grantaire because his self-destructive habits frighten you. Also taken. It's not Bahorel because no amount of love would overcome the fact that he hates Lana del Rey. It's not Feuilly because he thinks Polish literature is far superior to French literature and you just can't stand that. Which leaves Combeferre or Courfeyrac, and my gut says Combeferre." She took a gigantic breath and smiled serenely.

He stared at her, openmouthed and flabbergasted, but thoroughly impressed. Musichetta was a few years older than the rest of them, but in addition to mothering all of them, she was a silent sentinel over all that happened. Nothing passed her eye unnoticed. "Wait a minute," he said dryly, "what makes you think it's not Cosette or Éponine?"

This was clearly the wrong thing to say, as Musichetta laughed so hard she grabbed onto the counter for support. "Oh, sweetheart," she chortled, wheezing for breath. When she caught her breath, she treated Jehan to a devilish smile. "Don't you worry. I know just what to do."

Combeferre shivered in the entryway for a minute, wiping the snow off his glasses and studying the board Musichetta kept by the door for flyers. He snorted at the ridiculously high rent of a sublet apartment on the Upper West Side and nodded with approval at the latest Grantaire-drawn, Enjolras-written political flyer decrying the evils of Congress and inviting people to the next meeting of the ABC. He wouldn't have noticed the tiny advertisement in the corner had it not been offensively bright. Squinting at the flowery cursive tucked in between the vines and violets bordering the page, he called over his shoulder to Gavroche, "Did Éponine put this up?"

Gavroche looked up from scrubbing the countertop. "Nah, I think Jehan did, but she's probably going, if you're interested. The usual, Ferre?"

Combeferre smiled as if at some private joke and nodded. One of the best things about the Musain Café, other than being friends with the owner, was that it was the only place in the city he knew of that carried blackberry syrup for his lattes. He pulled out his phone and sat at the bar.

[Combeferre]: Are you going to the lecture at the Metropolitan today?  
[Éponine]: Cosette and I are in Montauk for the weekend. But you should go and tell me how it is.

Combeferre decided against asking what they were doing in Montauk—it was too strange and the answer would undoubtedly be too long. He didn't have an interest in the impressionist influence in American pop art per se, but even when he was buried up to his ears in schoolwork, he liked to go to free lectures when he could. Some of them, particularly Courfeyrac, didn't really understand him. "You're already double-majoring in biochem and philosophy," he'd exclaim in exasperation, "what more could you possibly want to know?" But he'd just smile and shrug. He grew up in south-central Iowa. He wasn't about to pass up the cultural offerings of New York City.

He pulled out his phone as it buzzed against the countertop. Drawing in a deep sip of his triple blackberry latte, he read the latest text from Éponine that told him he absolutely _had _to go to the lecture and that she'd pay him in baked goods if necessary.

[Combeferre]: If it's so important to you, why the hell are you all the way out in Montauk?  
[Éponine]: City is stifling. Don't give a fuck about pop art. But you HAVE to go.  
[Combeferre]: …  
[Éponine]: Can't tell you why.  
[Combeferre]: Very compelling.  
[Éponine]: You'll thank me later I promise!  
[Combeferre]: Will I?  
[Éponine]: ;)

"You're sure he's coming?" Jehan fretted, picking at the end of his shirt.

"For the thousandth time, _yes, _Jehan! Now _please, _let me enjoy my girls' day!" Éponine sighed in fond annoyance, clicking her connection off before Jehan could say another word. He sat down dejectedly, tapping his foot.

Combeferre flew in just as the lecture began, glasses fogged from the sudden shock of temperature. Even with somewhat diminished vision, he could make out Jehan simply because his floral-printed button-up glowed like a beacon. His heart thudded painfully, and he swallowed as he sank into the empty seat next to Jehan and elbowed him with a smile. Jehan blushed slightly but gave him a dazzling smile in return.

Somehow during the lecture Combeferre's hand ended up between Jehan's, and a complicated trellis of snapdragons, Virginia creepers, and intermingled Latin and Greek phrases wound its way from the pen in Jehan's hand up Combeferre's arm, shirt sleeve pushed out of the way. Neither of them paid much attention to the lecture, and neither of them minded. They strolled through the museum after that, Jehan tugging Combeferre by the arm to the antiquities. He stood in reverent silence in front of medieval tapestries and illuminated books, the slightest of smiles curving his lips. As they turned to leave, Jehan's hand shyly entangled itself with Combeferre's. He didn't mind.

They walked through Central Park, and Combeferre laughed as Jehan stood with his head tilted up to catch snow on his tongue. Snow wasn't a big deal to Combeferre, who saw as much as two feet at a time fall in Iowa multiple times a winter, but Jehan was from Georgia, where, he assured Combeferre, it seldom snowed, but rained all winter long. "You know," Combeferre said suddenly, interrupting Jehan's impromptu ode to snow. He ignored Jehan's murderous glare. "You have written a love poem to everyone we know."

Jehan's eyebrows raised in alarm.

"Except me," Combeferre finished.

Jehan's fingernails took on a new level of fascination as he averted Combeferre's calculating gaze.

"Why haven't you written me one?" Combeferre asked, both curious and, if he knew how to articulate it, a bit sad and jealous. He nearly fell on his backside as Jehan leapt forward and in one fluid motion hooked his hand into Combeferre's scarf, pulled him down a little, and kissed him.

At some point or another, Jehan had kissed everyone. He was so free and easy with his affection, which seemed to flow endlessly. This was why it bothered Combeferre so much that for so long, Jehan had been almost cold toward him. Combeferre stiffened in surprise for a microsecond, relaxing and taking the shorter boy's shoulders in his hands. Jehan tasted of hot chocolate and his lips were chapped. It wasn't Hollywood perfect. But it was enough.

Jehan pulled away suddenly, steamy breath spilling out between them and making him look like a dragon. There were snowflakes on his eyelashes. "I have written you poems," he said dryly, "and yes, I have kissed everyone but you. But how could I tell you that kissing you would mean something different?"

Combeferre grinned. "You could do it again, instead of telling me."

It was so cold Combeferre's fingers felt close to cracking. There was bumping of noses and scraping of dry lips and giggling and sighing, and it was perfect. In the back of his mind, he made a mental note to be Éponine's slave for a day to thank her for making him go to that lecture.

"But what if, just maybe, we've been wrong about the entire thing and Combeferre's _not _gay, he's just really good at suppressing any and all sexual and romantic feelings?" Feuilly asked thoughtfully.

"He's gay, trust me," Courfeyrac grinned lazily.

Éponine choked as she swallowed her coffee the wrong way. "You slept with Combeferre?" she wheezed.

"Twice."

"Is he good?" Feuilly asked with a wicked look in his eye.

"Surprisingly so, for someone who claimed to have no experience with men."

"You slut," Éponine groaned.

"But…wait…" Feuilly frowned, "does that mean that you're bi?"

"No," Éponine answered for Courfeyrac, "it means he's a horndog who will fuck anything with a pulse."

Courfeyrac pressed a languid kiss to the soft spot just below Éponine's ear with a chuckle. She knocked his arm just a little too hard and he slid backward off his stool with a clatter that was entirely too satisfying to her.

Combeferre and Jehan agreed they didn't want to tell anyone just yet. Nothing stayed a secret in this group for long, and for just a little while, they wanted to keep their—what? Relationship? Love? Whatever it was—to themselves. So naturally they were greeted with everyone they knew wearing paper hats and shrieking when they went into Musichetta's that night. Front and center, Courfeyrac held a poster that said HAPPY FUCKING! Jehan broke out into a wild fit of laughter and Combeferre flushed so red that his face actually hurt. Enjolras held out his phone where he had Éponine on video chat, and she blew them both a kiss and a shit-eating grin.

"But we haven't…we're not…we've only just…oh, fuck it," Combeferre grumbled, grabbing a cookie off the tray on the bar.

"As if you thought you could keep it a secret," Grantaire chuckled.

"As if you really thought Chetta wouldn't tell _everybody," _Bossuet deadpanned. She swatted at him with her dishrag and he danced out of the way, knocking over a pitcher of water. She groaned. Someone, probably Bahorel, flung water at Cosette, who chucked a bit of cookie at him, which hit Courfeyrac square on the forehead, and the evening degenerated into a play fight that made Musichetta give a shrill whistle between her fingers and threaten to throw the lot of them out in the snow.

"Maybe it's for the best that everyone knows," Jehan remarked on the way home.

"How do you figure?"

He grinned impishly, and Combeferre felt that tug in his gut that he got whenever he looked into Jehan's dark green eyes. "Now I can kiss you whenever I want!"


	7. Diamond Dogs

**Discretion advised for this chapter. Trigger warning for implied verbal and physical abuse, self-harm, and first-person descriptions of bipolar rapid cycling below.**

* * *

It's four in the morning and I shouldn't be here and I quit my job tonight and my dress is torn and my shoe is broken but here I am. Expensive booze and cheap thrills. Top-shelf boy and gutter girl. To contribute to the party I have a bottle of Absolut Citron and a nice rack, and since this jacket is Azelma's there's probably some kid of drug in the pocket. My fingers slip against a tiny plastic bag. Yep. MDMA. Figures.

"_Filthy whore. You filthy, fucking whore."_

"_Goddamn worthless."_

"_You probably liked them looking at you, feeling you up, squeezing your tits, you disgusting cunt, dancing for money."_

Sometimes the dirty talk is indistinguishable from the serious talk. Maybe it's the vodka. We are violent. We talk, sleep, sit, argue, fight, fuck like we're going to war. Maybe we are.

He wakes me up from the MDMA comedown because he found the text messages on my phone, even though my phone has a pass code. Because he _would k_now how to get around such things. Handcuffs are silk neckties to him.

"_Who else is fucking you? Is it this Jehan? Calls you pretty, writes you fucking poetry about your eyes? This faggot, this Enjolras, who calls you Ép or Ponine, or shitting Grantaire, calls you babe and honey? Oh. Wait. You're fucking Courfeyrac, because he always has it up for you. Goddamn fucking whore."_

In the morning there is coffee with whiskey and bruises and I go home.

"Who let you in here?!" Like a movie, I can't help but clutch at my chest, feeling my heart thrum. I shake myself all over to get rid of some of the water in my hair and shake off the adrenaline.

Enjolras holds up coffee and a bag of pastries as a peace offering. "You did, because you gave me a spare key," he deadpans. He squints and moves to step closer. I spin around and shut the door to my room before he has a chance to. Shit. I throw on some clothes and peek around the corner, but he's riffling through my kitchen for something or other, so I slap concealer over the bruise on my cheekbone. Usually Montparnasse is very careful to never touch my face. After all, it's marketable.

Enjolras has brought croissants and lavender honey and hazelnut lattes. I plant a huge kiss on his cheek. "You are simply _divine, _Enj, and if Grantaire ever lets you forget it or you have a bisexual awakening…" I give him a wink and he swats at me.

"You are ridiculous. Why are we friends again? Remind me." But he's got a little bit of a smile.

"Because I am the only one who will edit your papers and read over your speeches without crying about what a horrific bore you are," I take a big drink of the coffee that warms me to my bones. Not that I need it. It's June.

"Ah, right," he chuckles. "Hey, where's the TV? I was going to watch the news."

"Sold it," I shrug. "Wanted to buy a birthday present for Gav, and I quit my job last night."

Enjolras, who is never rattled, never surprised, actually chokes on his latte, sets down his croissant, and stares. "You…quit your job."

"Yeah…?"

Suddenly he's thrown his arm around my shoulders in a most un-Enjolras-like fashion. "Ép, that's incredible! That's amazing! Congratulations." He gives my shoulders a squeeze, and I can't help it. I grit my teeth and hiss because he's pressing _right there, _over this _massive _bruise. I just have to cross my fingers he doesn't notice.

He does.

His hands go to my shoulders and upper arms—god_damn _he has a knack for finding cuts and cruises—and turns me to face him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." It's a reflex, like biting the skin on my knuckles.

"Éponine."

Like right now. My knuckles look terrible, but it helps, somehow.

"_Éponine."_

Why am I moving so slow today? I'm just about to say something, it's right there on the tip of my tongue with the leftover vodka and the bitter MDMA and the latte and honeyed croissant when his thumb pushes over the shoulder of my shirt. Bruises. Bruises galore, because honestly, why the fuck not?

"You went back to Montparnasse." His voice is a deadly and dangerous growl.

I meet his eyes, and they're an angry shade of black-blue usually reserved for protests and professors. "So what if I did? Ain't your fucking business, is it?" He looks surprised, and I'm not totally sure what made me lash out like that. Maybe because I am so fucking _tired, _but I keep going and throw out all the stops. "And yeah, I quit my job, and isn't that just shitting wonderful, because now I will have absolutely _no _way to pay my bills or buy my groceries or take care of my brother without fucking _selling my possessions, _but at least I'm not dancing in a club, right?"

"Éponine, I—"

"Maybe now that I don't have a job at all, maybe I will _finally _get your approval, am I right?!"

"Éponine, we love you, you know that's not—"

"_No, _Enjolras, what's not cunting fair is that I've had to work so damn hard for absolute shit."

"For Christ's sake, Éponine, please—"

"Please leave." And in that split second of silence, I realize that my chest is heaving and my throat hurts from screaming and my face feels vaguely wet. I have absolutely no idea why I'm so hysterical but I'm eighty-nine percent sure I'm a bad comment away from having a meltdown and I'd just as soon do it by myself.

For his part, Enjolras looks one part severely pissed and one part borderline terrified, which would be hilarious if the situation were different. But he stands up with that fucking perfect grace he has. "Okay. Okay, Ép. Okay. Listen, I, uh…"

He's short of words. Outstanding. I have rendered him incapable of speech.

"Yeah," he finishes lamely, grabbing what's left of his breakfast and making his way toward the door. "Hope you…feel better."

The shock of stillness makes my ears ring and suddenly there is nothing more offensive than the sight of Enjolras' stupid coffee mug that he has left on my table for God knows how long and I'm pretty sure it's actually Grantaire's mug that he's stolen.

There has probably never been a sound more satisfying in the history of satisfying sounds as the resounding noise of it shattering against the wall.

It's June and it's sweltering and the day is glittering and the breeze tickles and my lungs fill with electric summer air and I am fucking _alive. _

And there is a large body blocking my sun. "Fancy seeing you here."

I sit up. "Bee in your bonnet, Jamie?"

Courfeyrac looks distinctly…_displeased. _I scoot over and smooth my dress over my knees. It used to be baby blue all over, but I saved it from an untimely death at a thrift store and patched it with other blues, scraps of whatever I could find in the heap at the bottom of my closet.

He sits down next to me with a heavy thump. "Where have you been for the past two weeks?"

I glare at him, pushing my sunglasses down. "So I felt like having some space from Les Amis, is that a crime?"

"It is if you're back with your abusive boyfriend and you quit your job and none of us know where you are and you're never in your apartment," he deadpans.

I dig in my pocket. "Cigarette?"

"What?"

I inhale and hold, savoring the acrid, minty burn before blowing a ring. "I've been at my apartment, just not when anyone's stopped by. Enjoying the summer air, you know?"

"Ponine, it's like, 94 degrees out."

"And you only live once."

He glares at me. "Please just tell me you're okay."

Actually, I feel fucking _fantastic. _ Like, really, really good. MDMA-overload good, except I know I haven't done drugs since that night at Parnasse's. I've felt like I've been flying the past week, but I chalked it up to quitting my job. "Seriously, I'm good, James." He makes an unholy face at me calling him that, but I ignore him. "Really, really good. I quit my job, and I'm looking for something that's better, and look!" I hold out my arm for his inspection. "No bruises. No Montparnasse. I promise I'm done, okay? I had a bad night, I made bad decisions, but I swear on my life—" or on the pinky I hold out as a peace offering "—that I will not darken the doors of his apartment under pain of death."

He snorts and locks pinkies. "You are such a drama queen."

I tug at his hand. There's a busker across the way playing a mean guitar solo with one of those things attached that lets him play the harmonica without any hands. "Dance with me."

He snatches the cigarette out of my mouth and takes a drag. "Why should I?"

I take my cigarette back and kiss his cheek. "Because we are alive, Courf, and I feel like dancing." With a grin, I win him over. Courfeyrac goes to talk to the dude with the guitar and comes back with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "What've you done?" I sing.

"You'll see," he sings right back, twirling me around.

Guitar Dude whips into a one-man rendition of I Was Made To Love Her. I burst out in wild laughter. "I fucking love Stevie Wonder."

Courf dips me easily. "I fucking know, and I fucking like you, and you're in such a fucking good mood, so it seemed fucking necessary."

I'm cackling now. "So much fucking, monsieur, for shame, we're in public!" He spins me tightly and I tilt my head back, keeping my eyes open and watching the world go by like a kaleidoscopic carousel exploding with color.

In the hazy heat of my dim apartment his teeth worship my neck. His tongue licks up my sides like a wildfire. I am drunk off him and he is wild for me. It is not perfect. But it is as good as the universe will allow someone like me.

Éponine is prone to dropping off the face of the earth so at first they're not worried, especially when Courfeyrac makes the positive report that she's just been enjoying being alive, she's not gone back to Montparnasse, and she's not on one of her terrifying depressive jags. But when it's been a week after Courfeyrac saw her and nobody can find her, Les Amis start going on missions to Éponine's usual haunts to intercept her because she'll no longer answer her phone and always has the deadbolt chain over the door in her apartment.

It's by total chance that Grantaire passes by her apartment building. He can tell she's home before he even gets down the hallway because she is_blaring _Lana Del Rey and he's confused because she doesn't even _like _Lana Del Rey, but the closer he gets the more he can hear Éponine's strangled-cat singing along with Lana's sleazy lounge-singer voice. He pushes the door ajar without her noticing and he instantly knows it's bad. Her curly hair is matted and straggly and standing on end. She's in her underwear and one of her old t-shirts from high school and she's waltzing with a bottle of Absolut Citron, which he can smell clear across the room. He turns Lana down a few notches and she spins around. He can't help the sound that comes out of his mouth. "Oh, Éponine, honey…"

She's been crying at some point because there are streaks of days-old heavy eye makeup down her face. She smells like a distillery and there are angry, perfectly executed crosshatches of microcuts on her thighs. The bottle slips out of her hand in surprise, but it bounces on the rug and miraculously doesn't shatter. He steps toward her slowly and she doesn't move. He opens his arms, silently asking permission to touch her. She shuffles forward a millimeter and permits it. He swallows her gently, tucking his chin atop her head. His nose wrinkles involuntarily as he wonders when she last washed her hair. She is trembling almost imperceptibly, but the longer they stand there in the stifling heat of her apartment with Lana wailing away in the background, the tremors turn into full on shakes.

He eases her onto the couch and her nameless, scraggly gray cat twines itself around Grantaire's legs. He takes Éponine's face in his hands and pushes her sweaty hair off her forehead. Her eyes are misty with tears. "What's wrong?" He's known Éponine since high school. They smoked cigarettes and snuck whiskey and hated the world together. What he always admired about her, though, was that she had this secret hellbent fire driving her to get up, get out of the slums, make something of herself, do something, even if it was shit, so that at least she'd be on her own. He's seen her go through cycles like this, but it's been a while since one was so bad.

She bites on her bloodied lip and snaps the hair elastic against her raw wrist. "How do I make it stop, R?"

"Make what stop, babe?"

She shudders and draws her bony knees up to her chest. "Everything hurts and I don't know why, I don't know why, how do I take the pain away, R? Make it go away."

He doesn't know what else to do, so he kisses her cheek. This is worse than he thought. "Okay, Ponine. I promise I'll try. Let's get you to the shower and I'll clean up and make you something to eat, okay?" She nods, still shivering. He takes her hand and gently pulls the hair elastic off her wrist. "Please, Ponine, don't hurt yourself in there, okay? We'll figure something out, just like we used to, and it'll be okay. Just don't hurt yourself anymore, okay?" She nods once and picks herself up.

Grantaire's first order of business is to feed Éponine's cat, because by the looks of it, the thing hasn't been fed in a few days, or however long it's been since this bender started. After that, though, he's a bit lost. Tidying her apartment is a given, and he knows how to boil water for tea, but she has absolutely no food that's fit to eat, and he knows that something is _very, very _wrong. He fires off a text to Courfeyrac instructing him to get over pronto and bring food, no alcohol, and strong coffee.

"I don't know how to tell you this, but please don't leave me alone."

They sleep curled around her, protecting her from anything that could harm her from the outside, unable to protect her from the inside. Courfeyrac wraps his arms around her and curves around her back. Grantaire somehow manages to fall asleep even though Éponine's got her nose stuck in his hair. They shuffle her into leggings and one of Courfeyrac's shirts and manage to get her to swallow a cup of coffee and a piece of toast and march her like sentries down to a walk-in clinic that will accept someone who doesn't have health insurance. Two hours later she walks out with a differential diagnosis of bipolar disorder and a bottle each of trapezoidal green pills and oblong white ones.

"It makes so much sense," Courfeyrac breathes. "I knew she was weirdly happy and it wasn't right but I didn't know about her losing her piss at Enj."

"I just don't get why I never saw it before," Grantaire grumbles, annoyed. "She's been like this for as long as I can remember.

"Let's just hope this works."

"Better to hope she actually takes the pills instead of flushing them down the toilet."

I've made the decision that I'm not going to tell everyone I know carte-blanche about being bipolar. They'd never take me seriously again. But I do want to tell Enjolras and Courfeyrac, and it's easier to tell them both at the same time. I'm perfectly capable of knocking on the door or picking up my phone to call someone to let me in. Instead I'm sitting on the fire escape with Courf outside Enjolras' window. In hindsight this is a bad idea because it's starting to rain, we're out of cigarettes, and we have no idea where Enjolras is.

When he flips on his light who-knows-how-much-later, he nearly hemorrhages. And the look on his face is absolutely, completely enough to make up for being drenched to the bone.

And I sit on Enjolras' floor and drink hot cocoa and tell them everything.

I tell them about what it was like for me growing up, how we lost it all, how my mom drank to excess (probably still does) and my dad ran a drug ring and got beaten to death and nobody cared. How my parents literally openly doted on Azelma and never at any time gave a fuck about Gavroche. How I spent hours in the art museums because they were clean and quiet and a world unto themselves, which is how I ended up where I am now.

Then I talk about myself, which is harder.

Courf holds my hand. It's kind of nice. We fit well. His hands are big and his fingers are bony.

He knows better than to give me pretty words. He just gives me more cocoa and a smile, which is kind of like love, in a way.


	8. Tiny Stars

Cosette is probably closer to Éponine than anyone. Éponine would sooner die than admit it, but she doesn't make friends well. It's relatively hard to make friends when your default setting is to bristle at people and go on the defensive. Not to mention that, as Enjolras had once explained, people of a certain class tend to look down on people with certain accents…and Éponine is identifiable approximately half a block away both due to her twangy Brooklyn accent and the fact that she tends to shout-talk. Cosette is closer to Éponine than anyone, and has been ever since she came bearing vanilla chai in the library during freshman year. Éponine learned how to break in pointe shoes and massage feet and ankles, and Cosette learned the apparently _extremely important _differences between Monet and Manet so she could edit Éponine's papers. They take trips to the end of the subway line for the hell of it and show up at the other's apartment with trashy movies and skin-your-hide Indian takeout. Cosette is closer to Éponine than anyone, which is why her absence cuts Cosette to the quick.

Physically speaking, Éponine hasn't gone anywhere. She shows up at meetings, works at the café, goes to class, and studies in the library. She banters with Grantaire, bickers with Enjolras, talks hockey with Bahorel and classic poetry with Jehan. It isn't until Marius asks Cosette—with Courfeyrac standing some feet behind her—"Hey, when was the last time you talked to Ponine?" that Cosette realizes it's been longer than she cares to think, and she's not even sure how it happened, but she feels a touch relieved when Courfeyrac says she's shut him out, too.

Cosette has never been so nervous as when she let herself into Éponine's apartment the week before Thanksgiving break. _Maybe I should just drop the tea and run, _she thinks. "Um, hey, I brought some vanilla chai," she says, a blush creeping up her cheeks.

Éponine stares at her from behind her reading glasses, standing there in a ragged oversize t-shirt from Grantaire's closet and leggings filled with holes. "I'm studying for my Asian art midterm..."

_Shit, shit, shit. _ "I guess it's a good thing I'm not staying long," Cosette smiles. "I wanted to invite you to come home with me for Thanksgiving." She can see Éponine bristle slightly, which she expected, so she plows on before Éponine can open her mouth. "Not that I think you don't have anywhere else you can go, it's just that I…" she bites her lip, trying to decide how much to say. _It feels like we've grown apart, _she wants to say. "I can't imagine anyone better to spend my Thanksgiving with, and in my favorite place," she finishes.

Cosette's not expecting Éponine to say yes, but she does.

In exchange for setting Feuilly up with the pastry girl at the café, Éponine borrows his car. Her driving borders on terrifying, and she only learned over the summer, having never had a need for a car, but she has a theoretically better understanding of how to get out of New York City than Cosette does. Cosette drinks in big gulps of cool air from the open window while she tries very hard not to puke on the floorboard. To make up for it, Éponine lets Cosette pick the music. "Wow," she whistles when the fourth ABBA song comes on. "Your taste in music _sucks."_

"At least I don't listen to Lana Del Rey," Cosette shudders. They have a long standing feud over whether Marina and the Diamonds or Lana Del Rey is better, and they can't understand why Jehan exasperatedly asks them why they don't like _both._

"Lana Del Rey sings about unhealthy relationships, poverty, and alcohol dependence; she's perfect for me," Éponine deadpans with a wry smile.

Cosette doesn't really know what to say. This is the most they've talked in probably weeks. Cosette assumes (rightly) that it has something to do with Marius. Éponine has never so much as breathed a word about it, but Cosette suspects there used to be a Thing between the two of them. For most of the time they've been together, Éponine has _appeared _to be fine with it, but Cosette and Marius have gotten more serious. _That kind of thing tends to happen when you date for a year, _Cosette thinks annoyedly, then sighs out loud. This weekend isn't about her. Not really. "Hey, do you want to take a little detour?" she asks. "It would be a good time to switch drivers, too."

"Where?"

"D.C."

Éponine is like a kid in a candy shop.

"What do you mean they're all _free?" _she breathes, eyes wide as they stand on the National Mall, monuments to dead presidents and scientific progress and minority history and obscure art all around.

"Yes, Éponine," Cosette grins, "all the presidential monuments and Smithsonian museums are free."

"Does that mean we can go to all of them?!"

"I don't think we'd really have time t—" Cosette is wrenched in the direction of the Natural History Museum, laughing as the passersby stare at two girls running down the Mall, one in beat-up leather boots, stockings, and a man's button-down, the other in well-fitting jeans, prim flats, and blue lace.

Éponine spins round and round in the rotunda, trying and failing to take in everything at once. The camera she borrowed from Grantaire is clicking at full speed. She can't possibly remember everything at once, but this can remember for her.

The camera stays glued to the window as they drive through gentle hills on fire with autumn leaves and grass so green it actually hurts to look at. "I've never seen so much empty space in my life," Éponine says delightedly.

"Haven't you ever been to the countryside?" Cosette asks.

Éponine snorts. "I've been to Staten Island."

There are a lot of things that Cosette could say. There are a lot of things she _should _say. "I think Courfeyrac is in love with you," she blurts out, and then she gasps like a girl in a bad 1950s movie because _this wasn't supposed to happen, she didn't give her brain permission to say that._

Cosette doesn't take her eyes from the road but she can feel the force of Éponine's side-eye. They can perfectly hear Coeur de Pirate for about five seconds before Éponine bursts out cackling. Cosette raises an eyebrow. "Oh, man, oh, man," Éponine whoops, "you've got to be kidding me. If you were looking for a way to get me to open up, you've found it." She chokes out, still chuckling.

"It's not funny!" Cosette says defensively.

"Courfeyrac is in love with _everyone, _including you, Jehan, and that girl who works at the bagel shop on 123rd," Éponine says with finality, twirling her hair around her finger and propping her feet on the dash.

Cosette takes Éponine home the long way, driving all the way through Charlottesville's downtown. Éponine pulls out her phone and shoots a low-resolution video.

[Éponine]: This place isn't even real.  
[Courfeyrac]: it looks kinda like where i grew up!  
[Éponine]: You people can take your adorable little hometowns and shove it.  
[Courfeyrac]: :)

It takes approximately three minutes for Cosette to drag her suitcase to her room, change into pajamas, and turn on the electric kettle to make tea. Éponine just stands in the kitchen in stunned silence at the efficiency. "She does this every time she comes home," Cosette's dad explains from behind Éponine, making her jump and spin on her heel. "Hi, I'm Jean Valjean. You must be Éponine."

Éponine holds out her hand, feeling a little nervous. Parents don't typically like her, but she promised she'd be on her best behavior. He's nearly as big as Bahorel, but he's smiling kindly and looks distinctly less menacing. Cosette's mother, Fantine, is so radiant, it's a little absurd. Éponine isn't sure whether it's because she's very beautiful or because contentment and peace seem to ooze out of her pores. Because of that, Éponine's not sure whether she loves her or hates her.

They're just sitting down to dinner when Cosette nearly drops her fork, remembering that she'd forgotten to tell her parents not to play Twenty Questions with Éponine. She squeezes her eyes shut, silently hoping that luck will be on her side.

"So, Éponine, where are you from?" Fantine asks.

"Oh, um," Éponine takes a big gulp of water, "I'm from Canarsie. It's a neighborhood in Brooklyn."

_Okay, not so bad, _Cosette thinks, listening to Éponine talk about her major, her job at the café, and the internship she's applied for at a museum. She relaxes as Éponine talks about her twin sister and little brother and her hobbies.

"So what do your parents do?" her father asks, and Cosette nearly groans. _Fuck._

Éponine smiles as if at some private joke. "My mother is in real estate, and my father is a salesman."

Cosette is absolutely astounded. She _thinks _she sees Éponine throw her a wink, but it might just be a trick of the light. "I'm so sorry," she says later, when they're sitting cross-legged on her bed. "I meant to tell them—"

"You don't have to make excuses for me, Cosette," Éponine smiles. "I am what I am."

"How did you cover so well like that?"

Éponine flops onto her back. "I've been asked that shit before, and it's _almost _true—my father does sell things, just not nice things. And, to be fair, we _do _actually own a few houses in the neighborhood that we rent out. To use a fine Virginia expression, 'This ain't my first rodeo, sweetheart,'" she says, trying to sound like John Wayne and somehow turning it into Sean Connery.

Cosette snorts. "I think you're confusing Virginia with Wyoming. If you haven't noticed, _I _don't have an accent, and neither does my papa."

"I know. You sound just like Bahorel. If it weren't for your mom, I'd be disappointed."

Cosette hugs her knees to her chest. She is home, and it almost feels right. Almost.

Éponine can't sleep.

The glow from the streetlights filters in through the gauzy curtains. Éponine props herself up against the headboards and squints in the darkness at the scattered photographs and scraps of Cosette's memories, thinking not for the first time how accurately Cosette's room is a reflection of her life. It is the perfect combination of sweet and sultry, but mostly, it's neat as a pin. Jane Austen books flank Gertrude Stein and gender theory; Tchaikovsky sits next to Janis Joplin; and throughout, there are snapshots of Cosette with friends and family, someone who has clearly wanted for nothing.

Stealing a glance at Cosette's peaceful sleeping form, Éponine quietly swings herself out of bed and pads down the stairs with her book in hand. Curling up in a corner of the couch, she flicks on a dim light and huddles under it, flipping the book open. She slips into the story quite easily and mentally pats herself on the back for her determination to ignore things she doesn't want to think about. She nearly shrieks when the overhead light comes on, and she jumps like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," Fantine laughs gently. "I'm a night owl, too, and I was up late grading papers and decided to come down for some cider. Would you like some?" Éponine nods quickly, trying to still the galloping of her heart. She half-expects Fantine to bring her cider and go away, but she's unsurprised when Fantine sits on the other end of the couch. "I hope my husband and I didn't embarrass you by asking you so many questions earlier," she apologizes.

Something in Éponine's brain seems to have come loose, either because she's still recovering from being startled or because it's almost four in the morning, she's not sure. "No, it's fine," she says lamely, "it was no trouble at all."

"I've been to Canarsie," Fantine muses, and Éponine wonders if she's going to be able to drink anything this weekend without nearly choking herself in surprise.

"I'm so sorry," she jokes darkly, and Fantine laughs.

"I went to grad school in New York, and being a small-town girl, I wanted to explore everything I could," Fantine smiles at the memory. "I wouldn't want to stay, though…New York has a way of making a person hard." The cider is spicy-sweet and hot as it slides into Éponine's belly. _Life would be easier for me if I were hard, _she thinks. Almost as if she can hear Éponine's thoughts, Fantine turns her doe eyes to Éponine's. "Forgive me for saying so, but I can tell you've been through a lot. I'm glad that it hasn't made you hard, and I hope it doesn't."

Of all the ways Éponine should react to a near-stranger's kindness, snorting into her mug of cider probably isn't the best way. "Ms. Fauchelevent," she half-chortles, "I don't know a lot about my family history, but I do know my ancestors were gypsies, so I can pretty much safely assume that life is a perpetual struggle." Maybe it's the tiredness making her bold, or maybe it's because even though she _does l_ike Cosette's parents, being in their house with their kindness and nice things and _functioning heat, mother of god_ is just a reminder to Éponine that Coestte's life is everything hers never has been and never will be—gilded and lace-edged perfection. "I probably _don't _need to tell you that my father isn't really a salesman," Éponine says frankly. "Unless you count stolen goods and the occasional narcotics."

She can't stop herself, and there is a tiny part of her that is sorry and ashamed to be airing her dirty laundry when Cosette's parents have been nothing but kind, and if they dropped her off at the bus station she wouldn't be very surprised. But Fantine is watching her carefully. "Jean, my husband, isn't Cosette's father," she says with practiced calm. Éponine bites back the harsh "so?" on the tip of her tongue. Honestly, she'd be relieved if the man she called 'father' really wasn't. She shakes herself back to reality as Fantine lapses into recollections. "I was in graduate school, and I thought I was in love. I thought we would get married. Even after Cosette was born and the months went by and I didn't hear from him and couldn't even find him, I thought he'd come back."

She falls silent, as if unsure of whether or not Éponine wants to hear, but Éponine nods.

"I had to quit grad school to work. I was lucky that we were able to get a place at a women's shelter, so I didn't have to worry about rent anymore, but I don't think anyone really anticipates how much a baby costs until you have one. Then I was diagnosed."

"Diagnosed…?"

"With colon cancer. Metastatic. I mean, for god's sake, right?" Fantine laughs without humor. "Nobody expects aggressive colon cancer when you're twenty-four, but the doctors assured me it had been known to happen, especially if I had a family history. Of course, I didn't have health insurance. When you're young and healthy, why pay for something you think you'll never need? The saving grace was that my parents were dead and I had an inheritance. But as I got sicker from treatment, I couldn't take care of Cosette like she needed or deserved, so I had her put into foster care, so I could get her back if I ever got better."

Éponine stares at her with wide eyes. Fantine hasn't raised her voice or outwardly betrayed her perpetual sense of calm, but she radiates anger instead of happiness.

"The hardest thing I have ever done in my life is look at my two-year-old and give her up to the care of strangers." She pauses to collect herself. "It probably seems like everything is fine." She sighs. "It's not."

Éponine feels vaguely itchy.

"I went into remission two years later. But I'd cleaned out my savings and my medical bills were sky-high. There was no way I could actively support a child while trying to pay off my debts. I went back into the women's shelter and worked every job my sanity could handle. I got Cosette back when she was eight. I'm lucky in that her last foster parent was Jean, but the damage was already done."

Éponine swallows, and her throat is painfully dry.

"Cosette doesn't remember the foster homes. She's blocked them out, I suppose, but I'm not so stupid as to think that all—or really any but the last—were good experiences. She might not remember them now, but she certainly remembered them when she was younger. She knew words no child should know, told stories of things no child should see…but the worst of it is how she blames me."

Here is where Éponine would reassure Cosette's pretty mother that it's not _her _fault she got cancer, but her mouth seems to have stopped working.

"While she was in foster care, she turned me into a superhero. I think most children probably think their parents are small gods when they're very young, but that goes away pretty quickly…unless, of course, your parents aren't there to show you their shortcomings. So, you see, when I got her back for good, she had very high expectations of what I would be like. Needless to say, I've been disappointing her ever since." Fantine lets out a barking laugh. "It's been very hard for her to get over her idea of what I should be, and sometimes she's still not over it. It's gotten so much better since she went away to college, but sometimes I wonder…"

Fantine seems to come out of her trance and realize that she's not alone in the room. Her eyes soften as she takes in Éponine's stricken face. "Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry to trouble you with this, and I hope you don't think that my experiences in any way make yours less important." She takes Éponine's hand gently. "I guess the point of telling you all this was to tell you to love as much as you can."

Éponine crawls back into bed not long afterward, her mind buzzing with exhaustion and confusion. Tentatively, she reaches out and takes Cosette's hand, slipping into sleep.

Cosette wakes Éponine up at noon, and for once, Éponine is instantly awake and doesn't fly awake with claws and fists. "We need to talk," she breathes.

Cosette hands her a cup of coffee and Éponine calmly explains everything, starting with the late night talk with Fantine and ending with Marius and Courfeyrac.

"So…wait. You weren't in love with Marius," Cosette says, feeling distinctly strange talking about her boyfriend as if he's someone she doesn't know.

"Nope. I was in love with the _idea _of him. Trust me, honey, he's all yours."

Cosette laughs lightly. "All joking aside, Courf really _is _in love with you."

"I know."

"Are you in love with him?"

"I don't know." Éponine rests her chin on her knees, scraggly hair spilling over her legs.

"That's okay."

Éponine holds her phone in front of her and hits 'record.' "I'm Éponine Middle-Name-Redacted Thénardier, and this is a proposal." She laughs and shivers in the November air. "Um…I like cats and the color blue. I'm afraid of spiders, big dogs, and drowning. I once accidentally dyed my own hair purple. The _His Dark Materials _series consumed my life in middle school. On three occasions I have cried in public, all of them at symphony concerts. And," she pauses for dramatic effect and to gather her nerves, "I would like to ask you, James Francis Courfeyrac, on a date. No gimmick. No joke. Just…a date. Maybe we could start with going to the art history department's end-of-term formal?" She giggles again, feeling foolish. "Okay. I'm freezing. I'll see you soon. Bye, Courf."

Éponine is standing outside of the Corinth getting a breath of air when she feels warm breath tickling her ear. "Purple hair, eh?"

She spins. "Hi," she says nervously, feeling a pump of shaky excitement. Courfeyrac grins, showing off dimples and two slightly crooked teeth in a smattering of straight ones. "Yeah, purple," she giggles. "It was kind of liberating, actually, until I got suspended from school."

He throws his head back and laughs. "Of course." His head comes forward and his chocolate eyes lock on hers. "You asked me on a date."

"So I did." She fiddles with the cuffs of her coat.

"Why?"

She shuffles her feet like a little kid. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

_Dammit, Courfeyrac. _"I reckon I…kind of…like you, maybe," she says lamely, feeling red in the face.

Courfeyrac's triumphant smile could light up the whole city. "Yes, Éponine, I will be your escort to your snooty art history formal. But there's just one condition."

"You can't put a condition on a date I asked you to!" she bristles indignantly.

"It's but a small thing, my lady, so insignificant you'll hardly think of it," he bows theatrically. "This lowly squire merely inquires as to the young lady's middle name, oft-mentioned yet never spoken."

Éponine regards him coolly, lips mashed together. "Do you, Jamie Courfeyrac, solemnly swear on your very soul that you will never breathe a word to anyone, living or dead, for as long as you live, under pain of castration?"

He winces, but holds out his pinky in offering. Groaning, she locks pinkies with him and reaches to whisper in her ear, lest ghosts in the alley overhear.

He's still chuckling when they go back in the bar, and she's still pummeling him inefficiently with her tiny fists.

A week later, he shows up at her apartment in a suit tailored so well it should be illegal, and she's wearing a plum-colored dress that hugs all her curves. "Hello," he says quietly, taking in her glossy curled hair, shining eyes, and the swell of her breasts above the neckline of the dress.

Éponine stares at him for the space of two heartbeats before taking two steps forward, gripping the lapels of his jacket, and kissing him so fiercely their teeth knock together. His hands go around her shoulders as he lifts her up off the ground. "I am in love with you, and you need to know," she spits out between showering him with tiny kisses like stars.

From behind them, Cosette lets out a wild whoop. "It's about goddamn time."


End file.
